A symphony in dream minor
parallels the grin
treading the line between etching and drawing
a singular distance can always bring one closer
to where they had always been in the first place.
Scorch the darkness with
a torch of
brushing off the sighs of stars
until it becomes song.
Veered to the left,
you increase the transparency of the little drippings finding
their way in between the cracks of your fortitude
the wax is lacking any substance beyond
what the flame tells it to possess.
Clever, the brick lies
streets and turning towards one another
whispering of your chosen path but
the only lines painted atop them are
those purchased by whoever decided
it was good to have side, and you
crankily try to decipher
how a map ever permits directions
to contradict one another.
Nitpick and note
dial and soap
the suds are drowning at the base.
Losing a single locke of hair
cannot be so bad
encountering the pile of forgotten threads
you needled without a second glance.
This terrifies me.